


Packing

by emrisemrisemris



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Height difference, I mean come on he collects guns fish and model ships why not dicks, M/M, Sex Toys, Shepard's artistically curated dick collection, Strap-On, Top Shepard (Mass Effect), Trans Shepard (Mass Effect), between me2 and me3, genre unclear ask again later, mostly sad but with dirty bits, right after Arrival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-27 01:16:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21383689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emrisemrisemris/pseuds/emrisemrisemris
Summary: Everything Jem Shepard had left in the world was packed down into two military-grade storage crates, except for the part that was curled on the bed next to him, holding his hand.
Relationships: Male Shepard/Garrus Vakarian
Comments: 1
Kudos: 47





	Packing

Ships came into the Citadel every hour of every day from every corner of the civilised galaxy and a few that weren't, and after hours or days or weeks in the endless miles of dock they headed out again. From the walkway by the docking bays they looked as small as bees deep in the throat of some monstrous glass-and-metal flower; but every one of them was a little world of its own, with a captain at the bridge and a navigator turning the helm toward the Widow relay, and somewhere they wanted to go to out beyond it.

One by one, those other ships had taken up little pieces of _ Normandy _ and carried them away, and left her dark and hollow and unlived-in.

Garrus leaned on the rail, shoulders and back aching from the heavy work, and replayed Shepard's speech in his head. It hadn't been long. Quick, but devastating, which was how he tended to do things, but no less painful for being familiar.

"Everything on this ship that anyone cares about has to come off it," he'd said, standing at the head of the long oval table. "Every funny mug, every kid's drawing. Assume that anything that goes back to Earth you aren't going to see again."

"Well, except you," Garrus had drawled.

"Including me," Shepard had said. "We don't execute war criminals anymore where I come from. But they don't tend to get out much, either."

*

They sat on the end of Shepard's bed, now stripped back to its regulation complement of stodgy pillows and plain sheets, and looked at what was left.

The fish tank had been emptied of fish, cleaned and sterilised, and restored to its original function as an emergency water reservoir. The fish had gone with Miranda. The mysterious sphere that went _ wummmmm _ when you touched it had departed in Mordin's luggage, in a box marked BIOCHEMICAL HAZARD DO NOT OPEN. The hamster had escaped during the packdown and was probably halfway to Omega by now, Zaeed and Tali had split the model ships, and Shepard had mailed his medals and the helmet he'd died in to the Spectre museum.

Everything Jem Shepard had left in the world was packed down into two military-grade storage crates, except for the part that was curled on the bed next to him, holding his hand.

"So who's staying?" Garrus asked quietly, after they'd sat in silence for far too long.

"Joker," said Shepard. "Dr Chakwas. Adams. Daniels. Donnelly. Chambers. Gardener. That's it."

Eight human officers, out of the entire bustling crew, going home to Earth to answer for ... all the things they'd done ... and plead for clemency. Seven people at Shepard's back.

"I can -" Garrus began, for the eightieth time.

"No," said Shepard flatly, also for the eightieth time. "Earth's got no claim on you; don't give them one. Besides -" he kicked one of the crates "- someone has to look after this lot."

They'd had a stupid, surreal, tense argument over the box of toys. Used, they couldn't be sold or gifted or given away, and Shepard had been adamant that they were neither going to Earth nor being thrown away. 

Argument wasn't really the right word; it had mostly been Shepard stating the obvious, which was that Garrus should keep them, and Garrus hating the whole idea not because of the box but because he'd still, to that moment, clung onto some hope that this wasn't happening, and Shepard standing there with his arms folded saying _ Look, I don't know about Palaven, but on Earth they don't let you have sex toys in jail _ had been the last ridiculous straw.

_ Well, _ Garrus had said, eventually, because it was crack wise or cry, _ some of them might count as dangerous weapons. _

Now he looked at the unassuming crate and its PERSONAL - PRIVATE seal, and said dryly "You know, in movies the keepsake the love interest is tearfully entrusted with is usually a ring or a photo. Not a, ah -"

"Whole crate of dicks?" his partner said, helpfully.

"Not this much of you," Garrus said quietly, and they both fell silent.

*

The very first time they'd gone to bed together, on the slow sublight coast out to the burning eye of the Omega-4 relay, he'd expected and planned for the necessary awkward conversation about anatomical compatibility and personal peccadilloes and all the rest of it. It hadn't, when it came to it, even been that awkward. He hadn't quite expected Shepard to haul open one of the underbed storage drawers to display an artistically curated collection of prosthetics, though on reflection maybe he should have.

He rolled over to get a better look, contemplated the array of colourfully oversized abstract shapes, and asked cautiously "Is that a typical number for a human to have?"

"You should've seen how many I had before I died. I like collecting things," Jem said, shrugging. "Guns, models, toys, fish ... Pretty stuff, useful things. You know."

"So am I pretty or useful?" Garrus drawled, unable to resist.

"Definitely pretty." Jem sat down on the edge of the bed by the open drawer and traced one finger along Garrus' mandible. His eyes were wicked. "As for useful ... ask me again when I've had a chance to use you."

The growl-moan of arousal that he made at that was completely involuntary, as was the shiver. "Shepard. You can't just _ say _ things like that."

"Or what?" Jem's fingers were inside his half-open tunic now, exploring the soft places under the rim of his collarbone, leaving what felt like a trail of fire in their wake. 

"Or -" Garrus covered the hand with his own "- this is going to last a lot less time than I want it to."

Jem slid his hand out from under Garrus' and straight downwards, skating down the long ridge of keelbone and over his stomach, and stopping at his belt buckle. He pressed down, just a little, and Garrus bit back a moan. The evil glitter was still in Jem's eyes when he said, straight-faced, "I'm sure we can stretch things out."

"Yeah?" was all Garrus could manage in response.

Shepard pulled himself properly onto the bed and lay down next to him, braced on one elbow, skin fevery-hot. "Yeah."

He slid his free hand over Garrus' thigh and over the smooth cloth under his belt. This time did not just press but _ leaned _, grinding the heel of his hand into Garrus' pelvic plates. 

He'd been halfway unseamed, his plates retracting as his cock started to unsheath. The pressure of Shepard's hand, angled just so, shoved closed the sensitive gap and replaced it with a deep, pent-in throb that was at least as much ache as it was pleasure.

He pushed back, almost instinctively, and Shepard moved with him but didn't let up. He wasn't heavy, nor even particularly strong, but had a martial artist's precision with force and angle, and apparently understood enough about turian physiology to know, ha, what buttons to push.

He was wildly turned on, only getting harder, but literally bottled up; it was dizzying, maddening. Every time he ground against Jem's hand, the edge of orgasm felt both closer and further. "Shepard - Jem - I -"

"Do you want me to stop?" Jem said, abruptly serious.

"No. Definitely not. But I _ assumed _," Garrus said, every word a private struggle to articulate actual syllables, "you'd want to bring out the collection at some point."

"The night is young," Jem said, grinning and unrepentant.

"The night has a suicide mission at the other end of it," Garrus pointed out. He reached for Jem, and at last the other let the pressure off and shuffled along for a hug. Pressed awkwardly together, warm and close, his fingers in Jem's hair, he added "And I _ have _ been daydreaming about you fucking me for weeks now."

Jem made an inarticulate noise into Garrus' collar, followed by "Say that again?"

"Which bit?"

"Not the suicide mission, the other part. Have I told you how hot your voice is?" 

"Frequently," Garrus said. He leaned into his subvocals, consciously putting more breath into the buzz and hum. "I think you should stop telling me again -" he touched Jem's face, and the human looked up to meet his eyes "- and fuck me."

"Yes _ sir, _" Jem said with a kind of savage glee, and climbed awkwardly free of him to scrabble through the drawer for a harness.

It didn't last all that long, but neither did that feel important. Once Jem had lingered over his choice, and Garrus had made a strictly unnecessary but highly diverting show of helping him strap it on, the actual fucking component was no more than a few minutes of laughing, gasping breathlessness. Garrus had already been tipped almost over the edge by Shepard's reaction to the sound of his voice: between the glorious feel of Shepard's body pressed urgently into his and a firm turian-sized toy stretching his cloaca, even a few more minutes took every iota of his diminishing self-control.

*

It'd been the same bed, probably the same sheets, no more than a few months ago. In the adrenaline-drunk joy when they made it back to the ship, free of the Collectors and the Illusive Man both, it felt like they could have gone anywhere, done anything. They'd helped Liara deal with the Shadow Broker. Done a scattering of other jobs. Talked, even, about re-registering the SR-2 to get her out from under the Cerberus holding corporation, and setting up as a free company to earn some cash while they investigated the Reapers on the side. There was no shortage of work for one-ship mercenary outfits, where a problem was too weird or localised or low-profile for the big three, and Shepard had been confident they'd be able to trade on his name long enough to get up and running. 

Then Hackett had told him about Aratoht, and it had all fallen to pieces again.

Garrus held Shepard's hand and said nothing. They'd already said everything that could usefully be said, several times over, and now there was nothing left to do but wait out the time remaining.

After an indeterminate, grey interval of silence, the intercom fizzed, and Joker's voice came over it. "This is your pilot speaking; ten minutes to launch, people."

That broke the spell. Both men stood, as if on cue. Garrus took the crate, hefting it up onto the edge of his collar to avoid having to jam it against his keelbone, and also so he had a hand free to hold Shepard's as they left the captain's cabin and waited for the elevator. Jem leaned into him, head barely up to his shoulder, and stared steadfastly ahead.

"Hackett seemed optimistic," Garrus ventured eventually, when the doors opened.

"He's confident they won't extradite me to the Hegemony," Shepard said skeptically, as they closed again. His fingers were still tight in Garrus', very hot. "As silver linings go, that's pretty thin."

"From where I'm standing -" Garrus glanced down, and found Shepard looking sceptically back up at him "- an Earth jail is a substantial improvement on where you ended up the last time something like this happened."

That got a wan smile. "Guess so."

The elevator doors opened on the cargo bay, where the main loading door stood open with the ramps down. A loaded float-pallet by the open bay doors held a couple more crates of Garrus' own belongings, and the long reinforced case housing his beloved rifles. He added Shepard's box to it, and they stood for a moment in the open doorway, uncertain what to say. 

In the end he couldn't summon words, and neither could Jem.

Garrus watched _ Normandy _take off a few minutes later, and followed the blue flare of her engines for as long as he could as she climbed up and out through the long petals of the station, and finally disappeared from sight, the little speck of light disappearing against the bright smudge of the spinning relay. 

He had his own ship to catch for Palaven. He nudged the float pallet into motion and headed for the commercial docking bays, steering the pieces of his life along on their impossible cushion of air.


End file.
